


It's All Fun and Games Until...

by emeraldine087



Series: Imagine Harry and Draco's NEWT year at Hogwarts [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Imagine Drarry's Eighth Year, M/M, Never Have I Ever, Not Beta Read, Party Games, Pre-Slash, The Author Regrets Nothing, Truth Spells, Truth or Dare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 06:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7673845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeraldine087/pseuds/emeraldine087
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>YOU ARE INVITED!!!<br/>To an Exclusive for Eighth Years,<br/>Secretly-organized,<br/>One-night-only Party<br/>Free-flowing booze!!! Dancing!!! Adult Party Games!!!<br/>Anything can happen...</p><p>...and the invite isn't kidding as Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy both find out.</p><p>They should have added "Clothing Optional" on the bloody invitation, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's All Fun and Games Until...

**Author's Note:**

> Part three, everyone! Though several days late, this is in celebration of the release of HARRY POTTER AND THE CURSED CHILD (which is awesome, by the way--but that's just my personal opinion because JKR could've written Harry Potter reading the phone book and I still would've found it amazing!).
> 
> This is the marriage of **two** stories: "Truth or Dare" (which, if I'm not mistaken is still posted on FF.Net) and a chapter of "Denizen" (a couple chapters of which used to be posted here on Ao3 but I've had to take it down because I don't think I'd be able to finish it anymore--so I might have to just shorten that one considerably, make it a one-shot and put it under this ongoing series just to get it out of my conscience). Unbeta-edited as is the other works in this series, hence, I'm not sure if I got the Britishisms right, so I would have to beg for your indulgence...
> 
> Kudos and Comments are, as usual, cherished with every chamber of my beating heart.
> 
> Enjoy!  
> \---

“Tell me again, Ron, why we’re doing this?” Harry asked in protest with a hushed voice as he straightened out the folds of his father’s Invisibility Cloak around his and his best friend’s frames.

“Because,” Ron began, “we’ve never just hung-out with the rest from our year. And Hermione was pretty excited that this was finally going to push through after weeks of coordinating with everyone involved. Who knows when we’re going to get another opportunity like this again—we’re finally graduating in a few months! Do you realize that? We have been killing ourselves with schoolwork for the longest time and the best we can do is take a break and relax just like any normal teenager. C’mon—I think the first part of the plan is already underway." 

“And what exactly is that?” 

“Get Filch out of the way, of course. C’mon!” 

Harry and Ron scampered to the direction of a rarely-used hallway that even Harry, who had taken to wandering the school in the dead of night armed with his Invisibility Cloak and Marauder’s Map, was unfamiliar with, amidst the deafening silence of the castle with hushed grunts and nimble feet. The castle was silent as usual at half-past before midnight. There was not anyone living in sight; the huge stone pillars were displaying their usual warm fires and eerie shadows while moonlight was spilling in through the round windows near the ceiling of the passage. If there were plans done for this night’s rendezvous by _all_ the returning students—Harry’s contemporaries, who made up the ‘unofficial’ Eighth Year student body of Hogwarts, they must have been done in cunning stealth because it didn’t look like there was any warm body in sight. 

“Are you sure there are plans for this gathering? Looks to me as if not even a soul is up tonight.” 

“The craftiest minds of our generation have come together to thresh out every single detail. What you see here—or rather what you _don’t_ see here, is the result of elaborate planning that was weeks and weeks in the making, mate.” 

When the two boys under the Invisibility Cloak rounded the corner to a nondescript door at the short passage’s dead end, the place was still as silent as the grave that Harry began to think that his friend was just pulling his leg. “Who told you about this anyway? It seems dodgy to me that Hermione had a hand in this. Breaking school rules by planning something that gets a whole horde of people out of bed in the wee hours is just so unlike her,” Harry hissed, gesticulating towards the eerily shut door and the silent-as-the-grave passages before and behind them. 

Slipping out of the Invisibility Cloak covering them, Ron walked towards the door at the end of hallway and rapped on the door with a series of complicated-sounding knocks. “Weasley and Potter,” muttered the redhead that Harry doubted could be heard through the heavy wooden door. 

There were muffled and hurried footsteps from the other side of the door and after a few more moments of waiting, the door opened and Neville Longbottom, a fellow Eighth Year peeked through the gap. Ron slipped through the door that stood ajar as Harry scrambled to shrink the Invisibility Cloak and tuck it in the right back pocket of his Muggle jeans before following Ron through. Neville hurriedly closed the door behind them. 

The first thing that Harry noticed in the room was how it was bathed in ethereal, dancing rainbow-colored lights like a Muggle dance club, not that he’d ever been to many Muggle night clubs but he had snuck into two—or three—of them. He was, after all, a curious, hale and hearty nineteen-year-old. There was also upbeat music seemingly coming from every corner, nook and cranny of the spacious room. Curly ribbons and colorful paper streamers were dangling artfully from the low stone ceiling. The two long tables that had stood on the center of the room were all pushed against the wall farthest from the door to provide room for a makeshift dancefloor and more space for the kids to mingle amongst themselves. The tables weren’t without their uses, though, as it was piled end-to-end with food: hors d'oeuvres, cheeses and fruit, scones and crisps, chicken lollipops, skewered meats, grilled corn on the cob, bread rolls and Danishes, an actual chocolate fondue fountain, candied apples and peaches, toffees and miniaturized fruit pies, and free-flowing butterbeer, Ogden’s Extra Strong Firewhiskey and pumpkin juice, which Harry was dead certain was also spiked with potent liquor if Seamus Finnigan had any hand in preparing it.

“So where’s Dean?” Harry yelled into Seamus’s ear when the latter had sidled up to them, forcing two ice-cold bottles of butterbeer in each of Harry’s and Ron’s hands.

“Still onto Filch along with some Ravenclaws. I hope they get here soon though. It’s already getting late,” Seamus answered while he checked the face of his wristwatch.

They merged with a larger group of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs and started discussing Quidditch and the odds of the teams they were supporting. They were in the middle of criticizing the ever- dismal performance of the Chudley Cannons especially in their last match against the Kenmare Kestrels when the door burst open and a hysterical group of young men made up of Dean Thomas and a rowdy bunch of Ravenclaws entered the room clad in black hooded cloaks, closely followed by a skittish group of more people, who, Harry assumed, would be more people comprising their year, come to join the secret revels.

The loud music was suddenly cut off and the room waited with bated breath if there was a need for them to scramble to safety in case the group had failed to deal with Filch and the latter was on his way shepherding the Headmistress.

“We sure got that filthy bastard!” Dean said amidst the raucous cheering and good-natured high-fives from the other Eighth Years in the room. Everyone was too excited to hear the details of how Dean and the Ravenclaws had bested the nosy caretaker that they hardly noticed the group of stragglers that had come in with Dean’s crew shrugging out of their dark, hooded cloaks.

“Well—I do believe we were promised a raging party attended by risk-taking, reckless adults but this is nothing but a gathering of lame and boring _kids_ —pumpkin juice? _Really_?!”

There was no mistaking that drawl and the tone of ill-concealed contempt that came with it. Draco Malfoy was in the premises.

“Don’t think for one second that anyone actually _wanted_ to invite you, you git,” a particularly petulant Gryffindor piped up.

“This is an _Eighth Year_ party and we are Eighth Years. We don’t need a formal invitation,” Blaise Zabini said, haughtily, and added, “prat.”

“Alright, alright—enough with the name-calling,” Hermione called out in a strong and clear voice as she inched through the throng to intervene in case the conflict got too heated. “We’re supposed to be past this already. We’ll be joining the wizarding community as full-pledged professionals in a few months’ time, so Godric help us, we can grit our teeth, act like the grown-ups we’re all supposed to be and tolerate the company of each other for one _sodding_ night,” she said in one breath, making her look more and more manic with every word out of her mouth. She turned towards Ron and stared him down threateningly.

“Hey—what are you looking at _me_ for?!” Ron protested, eyes wide. “I wasn’t the one who’d called him a _git_.” That was Ron getting one surreptitious insult through.

“That’s ‘cause she still felt your silent judgment, Weasley,” said Malfoy with a vicious sneer. “You ought to school your facial expressions more or people will start to think there’s a perennial stench of dung hanging about you with the way your face is always screwed up like that.” Malfoy looked around at his companions, sharing the joke, until Hermione awarded them with her murderous stare, and their laughter died a sudden death.

“I agree with _Granger_. Can we not do this tonight? I am so sick of studying for the NEWTs and school work; I just want to party and get _pissed_ , if it’s all the same to you,” Pansy Parkinson, broke free from her group and made a beeline for the buffet table with her pug-nose in the air.

The tension broke after that and the upbeat music started blasting all over the room again like the almost confrontation had never happened.

“I see congratulations are in order for pulling off planning the Hogwarts party of the century,” Harry said, leaning towards Hermione to make himself heard above the din of the music and their mingling cohorts. Harry was still nursing the same ice-cold bottle of butterbeer, in no particular hurry to finish it off while Hermione had in her hands a flute of some amber-colored bubbly.

“This was made possible by the combined efforts of all the Houses, you know,” Hermione said, disclaiming sole credit for their little gathering.

“ _All_ the Houses? Even Slytherin?”

“ _Especially_ Slytherin,” confirmed Hermione with an inscrutable expression on her face. “I don’t think many of us from the other Houses have realized that returning to Hogwarts this year for the NEWTs was especially difficult for the Slytherins from our year. Not very many of them decided to return—or even _could_ return—to begin with,” Hermione said, subtly motioning towards Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott who were standing close together, looking cautious and ill-at-ease. As if they were expecting to be attacked by any of the other loitering students any second.

“Pansy and Blaise were like people possessed, planning and helping in the logistics of this get-together,” Hermione further revealed. “None of them will admit it, but they were all eager for this party to happen what with all the stress from within Hogwarts—homework, revisions, the sheer pressure of wanting to do well not only for themselves but also for their families so that they can turn things around after the War, and also, most importantly, from without—constantly enduring _The Daily Prophet_ having a go at them for their involvement with Voldemort even if they’ve already been exonerated or served their sentence, getting _Howlers_ and hate mail for the deaths and destruction they couldn’t possibly have been personally guilty of but only because they were associated with the Death Eaters, The Snatchers, bigoted purists, or some such Voldemort-loving group, and a whole host of other external pressure. You know, the wizarding people can be a pretty vindictive and unforgiving lot,” said Hermione with wistfulness in her unconventionally beautiful face.  

“I did notice Malfoy being less of an insulting wanker to us this year. But I thought that was just because he didn’t enjoy feeling like he owed me for speaking up during his and his mother’s hearing,” replied Harry, taking a long swig from his bottle, disturbed that he had not been observant enough to notice most of what Hermione was talking about. He suddenly felt like such a grade-A tosser.

“Well that’s part of his reason, too, I guess,” conceded the brightest witch of their age. “Harry, I know it’s difficult to just forget about seven years’ worth of nastiness from the Slytherins—I mean, I should know, of all people. But maybe we could start tonight—to let bygones be bygones. And all of us here, we hold you in high esteem if not outright hero-worship the ground you walk on. Maybe if you can lead by example—be the forgiving and magnanimous person that you are—we can finally close the chapter on our animosity and move forward together,” Hermione implored, giving Harry’s hand a squeeze.

“Hermione, you know I would love nothing more than have bygones be bygones. That’s the main reason that I even gave testimony in the Malfoys’ hearing in the first place—that and to return his wand to him,” Harry reasoned, frustrated that he’d had to hear this speech from his friend at all. He had thought he was being unequivocal when he had spoken up in Draco and Narcissa’s defense: they need only forgive each other for their past mistakes so they could move forward and hopefully, not make the same mistake again.        

“And then you never talked to Malfoy again after that,” pointed Hermione out with a raise of an eyebrow.

“That’s ‘cause I didn’t want him to snap at me and accuse me of talking to him only because I pitied him,” Harry complained, raking a hand through his already messy black hair. He had this particular tic when he was anxious.

“Don’t you?”

“Yes!—No!” Harry answered, uncertain as to what answer was going to appease his friend. “I pity him, yes, but I wasn’t going to talk to him _because_ I pitied him!” Harry felt like he needed to clear the air about the whole matter. “I genuinely wanted to know how his mum was doing, if the Ministry had lifted the freeze order on their accounts and properties yet, if his wand was maybe acting up because, Godric forbid, I had wrecked it or something.

“But something always stopped me,” admitted Harry. “Maybe I just didn’t know how to _begin_ to talk to him, already dreading that I’d be confronted by an unyielding stone wall so I never bothered to try.”

“We don’t have many days left here at Hogwarts; and there’s always tonight to start trying,” Hermione said encouragingly, softly smiling before leaving Harry to his thoughts and joining a nearby group of girls.

Harry, now standing alone in the middle of a party that was just beginning to pick up, tossed back the rest of his butterbeer and thereafter, snagged a shot glass full of Firewhiskey to the brim from a passing student who had a tray loaded with them, no doubt on his way to give his mates. But seeing that it was Harry who had filched a shot from his tray, the student just smiled toothily and carried on. Meanwhile, Harry also tossed back the Firewhiskey shot in one go, ignoring the way it scorched his throat going down. He felt like he needed it for what he was about to do.

Before he could really think about what he was doing, he purposefully strode over to the pair of Malfoy and Nott, who were awkwardly trying their best to remain unobtrusive. Both were clutching half-full pints like they were just as ready to toss it back as they were to throw it at any potential attacker. Harry steeled his resolve and kept on walking towards the two Slytherins.

“Malfoy. Nott,” Harry acknowledged when he was already within earshot of the two.

“Potter,” Malfoy said back, his face more inscrutable than overtly suspicious about Harry’s agenda for sidling up to them.

Unsure if it was lack of forethought or a desperate attempt to overcome the uneasiness, Harry blurted out, “tried the chicken lollipops yet? It’s really good,” like a complete moron.

Malfoy and Nott thought so, too, and Nott snorted but quickly tamped it down to avoid offense. Malfoy, on the other hand, stared at Harry like the latter had started puking flobberworms.

“If it’s as superb as the hors d'oeuvres, I just might try some later,” Malfoy replied, recovering his bearings. “Thanks.”

There was silence between them as they contented themselves with watching the rest of the revelers from the sidelines. So much for trying to hold a two-minute civilized conversation with Slytherins.

Harry didn’t notice when Nott had stealthily left their little uncomfortable huddle, leaving him alone with Malfoy. He didn’t know what to say to try to pick up a conversation again, but he couldn’t walk away with nothing but whispered apologies either. This was the first time, all year, that they were in the presence of each other; while they were hardly alone, Harry knew this was still the best odds he’d ever had at trying to talk to the blonde Slytherin.   

“How’s your mum?” Harry asked, throwing caution to the wind. He knew it sounded bloody presumptuous, but he didn’t cower. He wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing after all.

If Malfoy was surprised or suspicious at Harry’s inquiry, he didn’t show it. Shrugging, he replied, “she’s doing as well as can be expected. She enjoys running a smaller household. Being in Paris is doing her wonders, actually.”

“She’s no longer living in the Manor?”

“No. It has ceased to be the home that it used to be. We have a small flat in Paris where she’s staying while I finish school,” said Malfoy, surprisingly chatty, considering who it was he was conversing with. “She’d be interested to know that you’re asking after her.”

It was Harry’s turn to shrug dismissively. “Well—I do owe her my _life_ , and that’s not exactly a trifle. I think, it’s just natural that I would be interested to know how she’s holding up.” Unbidden snippets of memory flooded Harry’s senses of that night that he had marched to his death in the Forbidden Forest, and Narcissa Malfoy covered up for him by telling Voldemort that he was already dead.

“You might likewise be interested to know that she considers what you owe her as already paid for in full,” Malfoy yelled by Harry’s ear, taking a swig from the pint he had been nursing since the party started. Harry watched from out of the corner of his eye as Malfoy breathed and opened his mouth in preparation to say something. “Potter, about what you—“

But before Malfoy could say anything further, a commotion louder than the blasting music broke out from the middle of the room, and Seamus Finnigan rose above the heads and eagerly clapping hands of all of the congregated Eighth Years on the makeshift dancefloor up to his waist, his arms waving and calling for everyone’s attention and his face a mask of mischief. “Everyone! _Everyone_! Shut it!!!”

All the Eighth Years in attendance were already either pleasantly tipsy or hopelessly smashed, judging by the pervading atmosphere of cheerful chaos. Both Harry and Malfoy were jostled and involuntary herded away from their relatively secluded corner to near the very heart of the room as Seamus fought to grab everyone’s attention. It was also during this time that someone had stealthily thrust in both his and Malfoy’s hands overflowing pints of extra-potent Bungbarrel spiced mead, probably thinking that they were nowhere near as drunk as everybody else and they had some catching up to do.

“I say it’s time to up the ante on this party with some _Strip I’ve Never_!” Seamus howled, brandishing his pint that still contained about two fingers of whatever liquor it was he was imbibing and spraying nearby people, who, instead of being annoyed at finding themselves drenched in alcohol, cheered in good fun—a testament to their being absolutely shit-faced or just about there.

 _Strip I’ve Never_ —that didn’t sound good at all.

“Every time your situation is different from that of the person declaring—and we’ll each take turns declaring, you are required not only to take a hearty drink of your poison of choice but to remove a piece of your clothing as well. Let’s all be clear that we are consenting adults here. We don’t want to force anyone to participate in the game. So, if you don’t feel comfortable getting your kit off for the whole Year to see, I need you to move to the periphery of the room now,” Seamus directed.

A lot of people were practically buzzing where they stood or swaying to the background music, but none made a move towards the perimeter of the room. It seemed that everyone was either really keen to take part in the game or too drunk to understand that they could opt out.

Harry fidgeted where he stood, tempted to elbow his way to the perimeter of the room to have nothing to do with this game, but stealing a glance at the stoic and unmoving Malfoy, he was given a surprising infusion of nerve to stay right where he was. Hell—if Malfoy had no qualms about spilling some secrets and getting his kit off in the presence of their entire Year, then Harry sure as hell had none as well. Subtly squaring his shoulders, Harry watched Seamus motion towards Hermione.  

“Now, if you please—Hermione, I need you for the Truthfulness spell.” At this, Hermione curtsied, uttered the spell and made the necessary wand movements to cast en masse. “Thank you, m’dear. That’s the easy part done. Now, to get the ball rolling, allow me to go first: Never have I ever…prematurely ejaculated,” Seamus declared proudly, raising his newly-refilled pint in the air again.

A handful of blokes involuntarily threw back their drink, aghast, to the resounding heckling of the rest of their mates. Malfoy stayed motionless with an amused smirk. He expectantly turned to Harry, who was slightly swaying on the balls of his feet. The latter neither took a drink nor yanked a piece of his clothing off. “Now I find that hard to believe, Potter,” teased Malfoy, but rather than find it offensive, Harry detected a hint of good-natured ribbing in the Slytherin’s tone.

“You’re one to talk, Malfoy,” Harry bantered back. “I hate to say this but Hermione _might_ have bungled that Truthfulness spell for the first time in her life.”

“You want to say that to her face or shall I?” Malfoy asked. The wanker…

“I’ve never masturbated in the prefect’s bathroom!” The next person declared with unabashed pride, and Harry was compelled by an invisible hand to take a gulp of his drink and toe his left shoe off with a mildly hysterical giggle.

“I would ask, but you might get the wrong impression that I give a rat’s arse. So I’d rather not,” Malfoy said with an exaggerated eye roll after he, himself, took a shocked swill of the alcohol in his pint and removed his right trainer.

Harry just looked back at Malfoy with a shit-eating grin.

“I’ve never killed a human being,” the next statement went. And Malfoy, of course, having been forced to do unspeakable things during the War, found himself downing another mouthful of liquor and kicking his left trainer off.

Harry took a more relaxed toss from his own pint and toed his other shoe off. Yeah—alright—so maybe Voldemort’s keeling over when he and Harry had fought counted for the Truthfulness spell, even if Harry seriously doubted if Voldemort could still be counted as a _human being_.

Surprisingly, not very many Slytherins who had been suspected Death Eaters or Death Eater sympathizers took a drink, and though a bit of tension descended upon the group for a while, it was mostly erased when the game continued as if the last declaration was uttered mostly just in good fun without any taint of malice.

“I’ve never kissed another guy before,” Neville proclaimed with a sheepish smile.

Malfoy took a grudging gulp of his drink and then pulled his button-down top over his head. He turned, horrified, to stare at Harry and watched as the latter took a hasty toss of his drink again and yanked his left sock off. “Don’t tell me—you messed around with Weasley?!” Malfoy asked, gobsmacked.

“What?! _That’s_ really your first instinct? You discover that I’ve kissed a guy before and your first thought is that it’s _Ron_?!” Harry didn’t know whether that disturbed him or amused him. Did everyone also think that? Did everyone just expect that if Harry ever fooled around with a bloke that it was Ron he’d fool around with?! “Who was yours then? I’d bet it’s Zabini.”

“No—eurgh! It’d be like kissing my brother and incest has never done it for me,” Malfoy disclaimed, giving a slight burp. The two of them were silent as everyone else started teasing the others who had also thrown back drinks.

“Oh come on, Malfoy! You’re seriously going to keep me guessing who the bloke was you’d fooled around with?” Harry asked, jokingly.

“Aaww, Potter—I didn’t know you cared,” Malfoy joked back, his lips curling in amusement. And Harry only just realized how different it looked from when Malfoy used to curl his lips in disgust or contempt. “I’ll tell if you tell,” Malfoy continued with a gesture for Harry to go first—reveal who it was he had fooled around with.

“Lucas Vaisey,” Harry said dismissively. Vaisey was a Chaser for Slytherin during Harry’s sixth year, and Malfoy’s teammate in the Slytherin Quidditch team, and Harry’s encounter with him was just accidental and purely experimental. It didn’t last long either because that was the same year that he started to find Ginny attractive, too, and, recognizing that he was more likely able to sustain something with Ginny than with Lucas, Harry stopped seeing the Slytherin Chaser. It was easy for them to call it quits as they kept things relatively at the _physical_ level.

“You’re fucking kidding me— _Vaisey_?! But he’s a complete wanker!” Malfoy seemed scandalized at Harry’s choice for a short-time, male paramour.

“It takes one to know one, is that it? Quit stalling, Malfoy—who was yours?”

“Cormac McLaggen,” Malfoy said, deadpan.

“ _What_?! But he was into Hermione for a time! Did you know that?” Harry definitely didn’t expect that one.

Malfoy just shrugged with a slight cock of his blonde head.

“I’ve never taken part in an orgy,” the next statement went. Wolf whistles echoed in the room, but neither Harry nor Malfoy was aware of the others’ state of undress more than their own. Malfoy watched, appalled, as Harry yanked his right sock off after tossing back his drink.

“ _Really_ , Potter?! Does the Weaselette know about this?”

“Oh bugger off, Malfoy,” said Harry, fighting off a smirk.

“I’ve never given oral sex,” timid-looking Hannah Abbott declared. Harry shook his head softly. It was one of those nights, and one of those games. He took an angry drink then pulled his olive green jumper off through his head and growled softly. At least, Malfoy was also pulling his thin white undershirt after having gulped another mouthful of liquor.

“I’m not even going to ask,” Harry said, coating his words with sarcasm.

“Don’t.”

“I’ve never _been_ given oral sex,” came the next statement. A few titters in the crowd broke out. Malfoy took a self-assured gulp, and then noticing his state of near-nakedness, thankfully spotted his wristwatch and took it off. Harry was motionless beside him. The Gryffindor was almost certain that Malfoy was not going to let this one pass.

Harry was right. “Now that’s just sad, Potter.”

“I didn’t ask for your bloody opinion,” Harry mumbled, making sure to load his words with disdain.

“I’ve never gone skinny-dipping!”

Harry, muttering, took another swig of his pint and pulled his own undershirt over his head. Malfoy turned to look at him and gave a start, probably noticing the same thing that Harry did: they were on the same state of undress. They were both topless and barefoot with nothing but their trousers and underwear in the way to complete nudity. That wasn’t the only thing that Harry noticed, much to his chagrin. He also noticed Malfoy’s wiry and lightly muscled body, well-defined abdomen and alabaster complexion. It was arresting, and, save for the ghost of the Dark Mark on one of his forearms, near perfect. Harry blamed it on the unreasonable intake of alcohol, but he also noticed that Malfoy’s hair was not slicked back and gelled to within an inch of his life—it was windswept and messily attractive. The look actually suited him better

Suddenly self-conscious about his own body that had been deprived of proper nutrition during his younger years, Harry hunched his shoulders to appear even smaller and fidgeted again.

“Don’t, Potter,” Malfoy reproached him with furrowed dark blonde eyebrows.

“What—“

“Don’t do that,” Malfoy nodded to his hunched shoulders. “Don’t hunch. Your body is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Am I to interpret that as a compliment from the Savior of the Wizarding World?”

“Maybe?”

“In that case, let me pay you one in return.” Draco gave him a wordless once-over—from head to toe and toe to head with smoldering silver eyes. “ _I’m_ looking at you and I say you’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

It was probably the worst possible time to blush a bright puce. But to Harry’s utmost shame, that was exactly what he did.

“I’ve never had sex between the stacks in the library!” Loud laughter filled the room, and Harry was suddenly glad for the distraction. Or not glad when he felt his pint rising near involuntarily to his lips for a swig.

Harry closed his eyes in defeat as he tossed back what was left of his drink, unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers. Harry didn’t want to open his eyes to see if anyone was looking at him in his skivvies and laughing their arses off. Stepping out of his trousers, Harry finally realized that Draco, too, was stepping out of his while fuming.

“Apparently, studying is not the only thing you hole up in the library for, eh Malfoy,” Harry teased, trying to make light of the moment. He _was_ half-thankful, though, that he wasn’t in this predicament by himself.

“Pot, kettle, Potter.”

“I hope it was worth the trouble,” Harry ribbed.

“Oh it _was_ and then some,” came the cheeky reply.

“I’ve never checked anyone out, who’s the same gender as me,” came the next declaration.

And Harry froze as if he’d been Stunned. It was like fate had it in for the both of them because wasn’t this exactly what they’d been doing just a while ago?

Since both had already tossed their pints empty, they prepared to take their underwear off with grim faces. But before they could make a move, a commotion broke out when a Ravenclaw girl literally keeled over unconscious because of being thoroughly drunk. It was time for some of them to call it a night, apparently.

“Were you going to strip, Malfoy?” Harry asked, beginning to slur his words. He gingerly pulled his trousers off the floor and, stepping into them again, began putting his clothes back on.

“No,” Malfoy murmured. “Were you?” He likewise grabbed his trousers from the floor where it was in a pile with his other articles of clothing.

“No,” Harry replied, realizing that there was no compulsion anymore from the Truthfulness spell.

“Well, it was nice doing this with you, Potter. Really one to cross off my bucket list,” Malfoy drawled, hurriedly getting into the remainder of his attire. “I think I’d top off again and try those chicken lollipops now.” Nodding his head once in haste, Malfoy walked away from Harry without waiting for the latter to say anything else.

Harry was left wondering if Malfoy wanted to get away from him quickly because of something he did. That was too bad because he had thought the short encounter really kindled something resembling friendship between the former bitter rivals.  

 

-0-0-0-

 

The _Strip I’ve Never_ seemed to have broken the dam for more group games instead of putting them off after Sue Li had collapsed due to drunkenness. Draco had never been one for innuendo-laden party games mainly because he had never been invited to many parties attended by other people his age growing up. Sure, there were the parties or galas his parents used to host but they were mostly dry and boring, thrown for purposes of politicking, establishing powerful connections, rubbing elbows with other pureblood families for the prospect of joining their houses through marriage. Suffice it to say that Draco never enjoyed those parties nor the ones that came later on, which were more Death Eater congregations than anything else. He _hated_ those parties.

So it didn’t really take Pansy and Blaise that much effort to convince Draco to come. He would refuse to admit it even at wandpoint, but he was actually _excited_ to attend the Eighth Year revelry. He felt so isolated this year, keeping mostly to himself with his head down, minding nothing else but schoolwork, reading books and writing daily to his mother. He was uncertain if returning to Hogwarts for his NEWT year had been wise, but for lack of other options, he had steeled his resolve and written to the Headmistress for approval to come back and finish school. The Headmistress surprised him by writing a missive back saying that if he desired to return, he was, of course, welcome.

To avoid conflict and attracting unwanted attention to himself, he stayed aloof and detached, and the rest of the Slytherins imitated him. They became even more self-contained than they used to be for fear of any backlash from the rest of the student body. And there indeed was some hostility, but it was nowhere near what they had expected. Mostly, the rest of the Houses let them keep to themselves.

Except for tonight.

And for the first time, since Draco started at Hogwarts, he felt like he was every inch a _teenager_ like he had never been one before, reclaiming the carefree adolescence he had once been denied. The rest of the Slytherins were enjoying themselves, too, although they would sooner go to their graves than admit that.

“I think it’s high time for a little _Truth or Dare_ now,” Blaise suggested to the rest of their heavily drunk company that, Draco realized, was made up mostly of Gryffindors. Who knew that ickle Gryffindors could hold their liquor this well?

“We should get into a circle then and establish some ground rules,” said Hermione with a bright smile directed at Blaise. She was probably glad that Slytherins were starting to show signs of life. Draco was secretly thankful to the Muggleborn witch for being as stubborn as she was, extending this invitation to the Slytherin House. He thought he would never see the day that Blaise and Pansy had something good to say about a know-it-all or a Muggleborn or a Gryffindor, but she was all three and Draco’s two friends were as close as they could get to waxing poetic about her.

“One, no information disclosed within this circle is to get out for public consumption. Agreeing to play the game automatically puts you under oath and law that thou shalt not tell on your fellow Eighth Year,” Seamus contributed, folding his legs into a lotus position on the floor in preparation for the new game.

“Two, strictly no magic when spinning. We let the bottle run its course naturally until we’ve all had a turn,” Pansy said with a mischievous smirk, brandishing an empty bottle of Ogden’s Extra Strong Firewhiskey before placing in the middle of the room as the other game players started seating themselves in the circumference.

“Three, but we will use magic, such as the Truthfulness spell to those who would elect Truth and a version of the Honor spell—much like a binding magical contract—for those who would elect to do a Dare so they would be under compunction to do what would be asked of them,” said Hermione, pulling her wand out. “Oh this will be _fun_ …” She finally let loose a mischievous smile of her own.

“For both Truth and Dare, after the person makes the choice, the bottle should be spun again to see who would ask the Truth question or who would give the Dare to whomever the bottle first landed on. I hope we are all clear on that,” Dean explained with a slight twinkle of his eye, rubbing his hands together in eagerness to get cracking.

There were nods of approval from around the circle of Eighth Years and Dean went to the middle of the circle to start spinning the bottle. “Then let the game begin—“ Dean flicked his wrist to turn the bottle around while the rest of the students hushed to wait for who will go first. Draco was virtually shrinking in his place between Blaise and Pansy, mentally commanding the bottle to stay the hell away.

The bottle turning slowed until it stopped, it’s narrow neck pointed at Weasley. Draco fought the urge to cackle and clap; karma was a bitch after all.

“So Ron—what’ll it be? Truth or Dare?”

“Er—truth, I guess.”

Dean smiled widely. “Well, turn the bottle again to see who would ask you a question,” he urged, and Ron stood up and turned the bottle again; this time it stopped on Ernie Macmillan.

Casting the Truthfulness spell with a flick of his wand, Ernie asked, “Ron—which two _blokes_ in Eighth Year do you find the most fit?” Weasley looked disoriented. Either that or he was grappling with himself, trying to resist the compunction provided by the Truthfulness spell, which, Draco personally could attest to, was a bitch to attempt. Well—it was Weasley’s funeral…

"Fit? _Blokes_? I—I—think—“ It was obvious how Weasley was putting up a fight, “Harry and Malfoy! Oh Merlin’s ever-loving crack!” Weasley visibly colored at that. His face would give his ginger hair a run for its money. Draco commiserated for all of two seconds, but inwardly preened. This was blackmail material against the redhead Gryffindor, twenty times better than being given a sack full of Galleons with no strings attached!

Blaise and Pansy burst out laughing just when Ernie cancelled the effect of the Truthfulness spell. “I’m sorry, Harry,” Weasley apologized to Potter who was seated right next to him.

“That’s OK, Ron.” Potter assured with a clap to his friend’s shoulder, half-amused. “If it’s any consolation, I think you’re fit, too,” Potter said with a smile that Draco couldn’t help but find just a tad attractive. Just a tad—

Alright, a _lot_ attractive! Potter’s definitely filled out as he had noted earlier when he had the Gryffindor standing not two feet away from him, providentially shirtless and all that was running through Draco’s mind in an endless loop was ‘Bless them Gryffindors and their muscle-packed Seeker bodies and dark happy trails that looked good enough to lick!’

That thought was more than enough to spur him to slither back into his clothing and put as much distance between him and Potter lest he act on his baser urges and actually kneel before Potter and tongue that happy trail in the middle of everyone from their Year.

Potter surprisingly turned to him and squarely met his gray eyes as if trying to gauge what Draco’s take was on Weasley’s revelation. Draco just cocked his head, sneered playfully and shrugged. Potter answered Draco’s wordless feedback with a slight twitch to the corners of his lips.

The Savior of the Wizarding World really _was_ sort of attractive, loathe as Draco was to admit it with the git’s tousled raven hair that nicely framed tanned, strong-profiled features, soulful emerald green eyes, and full lips, and a Seeker’s body, muscle-packed but not overly so. Just enough to look powerful yet lithe at the same time.

And, for Draco, Potter was the only one that made the prospect of returning to Hogwarts somewhat bearable. He had told himself that one of the reasons he was returning to Hogwarts was to thank Potter for what he did during their hearing. For saving his life in the Fiendfyre. For defeating Voldemort and setting them free. For everything that Potter was and everything he stood for.

He was in deep thought, compiling a list of Potter’s god-given assets, as round after round of people were subjected to the game. He watched distractedly as Justin Finch-Fletchley donned girls’ lingerie and paraded around the circle; his friend, Greg, was asked who it was he’d had wet dreams about; Susan Bones was dared to take a Body Shot off Neville Longbottom’s chest; and Pansy was asked who her first sexual partner was, which everybody must have expected to be him, but it actually was Marcus Flint.

Potter _was_ visibly surprised to hear that Pany’s first time wasn’t with him. He would probably be interested to know that Draco wasn’t Pansy’s second, third or fourth either. Draco was, after all, more partial to blokes than women, regardless of Pansy’s own god-given assets.

The bottle was turned again after Dean revealed that he’d lost his virginity to Parvati Patil. Draco was already starting to feel the effects of all the alcohol he had imbibed since the evening started that he momentarily lost interest in whomever the bottle would choose as its next victim, closing his eyes and kneading his temple.

The group broke out in near deafening cheers when the bottle landed on none other than Harry Potter himself.

“Truth or Dare?”

Draco watched Potter breathe deeply, steeling himself “Dare.”

Bottle spun, they all waited breathlessly for who was going to do the honor of challenging the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice. Draco could feel his own breath catch in his throat in anticipation. The honor fell on the lap of one Seamus Finnigan, whose face had broken into the hugest of smiles as if Christmas had come early this year for him.

Silence fell as Seamus thought of the most daring stunt imaginable for the Golden Boy of Gryffindor. “I hope it’s something I can _do_ , Seamus,” Potter joked, feigning his own misgivings about what horrendous task awaited him.

“Is there ever anything you _can’t_ do, Potter?” Draco, with a sly smirk, interjected for good measure.

After a lot of muttering on Seamus’s part, he finally grinned widely, eyeing Draco as well with eyes brimming with malice. Draco felt his smirk freeze on his face. He didn’t like the shit-eating grin on Finnigan’s face _at all_.

“It’s time for former rivals to bury the hatchet, _kiss_ and make up so to speak… Harry—I want you to kiss Draco Malfoy. On the _mouth_. Give him a torrid tonsil-knocker.”

The bloody, sodding, bollocks-eating _wanker_!

“What _depravity_ is this, Finnigan?! I dunno what you Gryffindor lot get up to in that Tower of yours, but I don’t see why I have to stand for this. I don’t need to do _shit_ because this is _Potter’s dare_ so I don’t see why you need to involve _me_!” Draco crossed his arms over his chest and looked at both Finnigan and Potter with indignation and absolute murder in his eyes.

“Maybe another challenge then, Seamus? Malfoy’s right; he can’t be compelled to comply and if he doesn’t comply, I can’t do my dare,” Potter reasoned with a my-hands-are-tied gesture.

“Rules are rules, Harry. You’re bound. And Malfoy doesn’t need to comply for you to do your dare,” Dean argued.

“You’re—what—asking me to kiss him against his will?” Harry asked, confused. “Come on, guys, no way are you going to hold this against me! Just—just change the task and I swear I’m going to do it!”

“Don’t be unfair to those of us who did as we were challenged, Harry,” interjected Justin.

“And I am prepared to do as _I_ am challenged,” Harry argued. “But if the other party to my challenge can’t get in on it then what would you have me do?”

Draco gave a start at that. “Excuse me— _what_?” He must have heard it wrong, but Draco could swear Harry said _can’t_. And it wasn’t that Draco couldn’t kiss Potter so much that he _wouldn’t_ —he _refused_ to be party to this outrage… He, of course, _could_ kiss Potter—he wasn’t scared or—Salazar forbid—doubtful of his skill. But now, Potter was trying to make him out to be the one at fault for failing to carry out the dare! “I didn’t say I _can’t_ do it, Potter. I said I don’t want to nor do I have to; there’s a vast difference.”

“Whether you don’t want to do it or can’t do it, the outcome is the same. And the solution is just to issue another dare,” Potter argued, his hackles obviously beginning to rise.

“Well—why don’t you want to do it then, Malfoy?” Seamus asked, curious. “I mean, there’s got to be a reason or maybe you’re just making things hard for Harry, like always. Is that it?”

No—that wasn’t it! Draco just didn’t want to kiss Potter! Did he _have_ to have a reason not to kiss the tosser? “Why do I need a reason? Why are we dwelling on this? This is not even my dare to do!”

“Harry—just spin the bottle,” Hermione told her friend, defeated. “We’re putting your dare on hold until the bottle lands on Malfoy and then you can both do the bloody dare!” She practically shrieked in annoyance.

“Then what if I choose Truth or what if my second spin doesn’t land on Finnigan and whoever it lands on asks me to do another dare?” Malfoy asked, his face a mask of petulance.

“Then pray that this spin lands on you and we’ll see, shall we?” Hermione squarely answered with a raised eyebrow.

The next spin _did_ land on Draco. He wanted to scream conspiracy and sabotage, but even Pansy eyed him with her teeth bared which unmistakably said ‘open your mouth and be the priss that you are and you’d be choking on your teeth and my fist down your throat.’

Two could play at that game then. "Truth," Draco elected with a sneer.

Draco’s second spin landed on Weasley, and he just about groaned in defeat. Of course, Weasley was going to make him kiss Potter just for spite even if he chose Truth instead of Dare.

“Don't you want to kiss Harry?" Ron asked as a hush fell all around the circle.

Draco grimaced. Bastard!

"I—I— _do_ ," admitted Draco, through gritted teeth. Fighting the compunction of a Truthfulness spell was always a bitch.

"Seamus?" Ron confidently turned to the Irish again, puffing out his chest in pride that he had thought of something tremendously, torturously creative. And Granger didn't have to give him bulleted directions to accomplish it!

"Considering the delay in the performance of the dare, I think we need to take it up a notch," said Seamus, maliciously winking at Draco before addressing Harry. "I want you and Malfoy to kiss on the mouth for at least a minute.” It was confirmed: Potter's friends were spiteful tosspots. “— _and_ wearing nothing else but your knickers. ‘Cause I think we didn’t fully appreciate you taking your kit off during _Strip I’ve Never_ earlier so a repeat performance is definitely in order,” finished Seamus amidst a resounding cheer.

“Think you’re being funny, don’t you, Finnigan?” Draco practically spat.

"This is me being _magnanimous_ , Malfoy. You did say you want to lock lips with Harry after all," Finnigan said with a by-you-leave gesture.

Draco stood up with shoulders squared and walked up to Potter, who was still within the circle. “For the record, Potter, your friends are complete _arseholes_ ,” voiced Draco with as much contempt as he could inject. He started yanking his clothes off again—his clothes that he had so hastily put back on when he realized that seeing Potter in _his_ skivvies was causing unspeakable things to his body. “And also, I’m blaming you for this.”

“You’re blaming _me_? You know, this might not have happened if you just agreed to get in on my dare, but no— _you_ had to be a todger about it!” Harry hissed, angrily divesting himself of his clothing. “Why I even thought you’d become a half-decent human being, I’ve no idea. I must be mental!”

"Knock him off his knickerbockers, Harry!” Seamus cheered along with the others ‘Go Harry!’ while others, still, crawled to spots more conducive for viewing the one-time-only, never-before-seen encounter between the two known mortal enemies and rivals.

“You’re about to be seriously snogged, Malfoy.”

“Let’s see your pathetic excuse for a kiss,” Draco dared, still half-hoping that Potter wouldn’t have the guts to go through with it. Potter pulled Draco close with a vicious yank on the back of his neck and planted his lips on the latter’s. Draco was momentarily dumbfounded at Harry’s nerve. The circle fell into a mesmerized silence as the two boys locked lips.

The black-haired Gryffindor’s tongue was aggressive as it pried Draco’s mouth open for better access. Harry really was a good kisser. This—Draco realized as he felt Harry’s insistent tongue grazing his and Harry’s warm lips setting Draco’s on fire.

Draco was vaguely aware of what his erstwhile rival was actually doing with his tongue, that intoxicating rhythm of slow caresses and that oh-so-light feathery teases. What he zeroed in on were the sensations of Harry’s tongue in his mouth, Harry’s teeth nipping at his lower lip, Harry’s lips, Harry’s warm, rough hands at the back of his neck and on the side of his torso, slowly sliding down to his trim waist. The whole world had dissipated into mist. Nothing else mattered but the feel of the Gryffindor’s body against his, the taste of Harry on his tongue like the entire stock of a sweetshop, the sound of his heartbeat drowning all ambient sounds.

Harry’s hand went from his waist to his bicep and slid down, down, down, sending tingles of electricity singing through his nerves. The kiss went deeper and deeper until Draco felt all his blood rush south of his waist, and he was painfully, undeniably hard in his underwear. He wanted to open his eyes that had unconsciously blinked shut, to see if he was having the same effect on Harry. But he didn’t want to be assaulted with reality yet. He wanted to stay ensconced in Harry Potter’s warmth for as long as he could.

Fat chance.

The warmth was gone in a heartbeat when Harry broke free from the kiss and everything returned to normal—every sound rushed back to Draco’s ears and the feeling of falling in an abyss ceased, leaving Draco momentarily disoriented.

He was never going to admit it, not even when he had his balls in a fucking vice, but like hell, that was the best kiss Draco’s ever had.

“No need to tell me that that was the best kiss you’ve ever had,” Potter had the audacity to murmur as if he could read Draco’s mind, his breath hot against the shell of Draco’s ear.

“Not even close,” Draco answered, fighting down the urge to shiver.

“Evidence suggests otherwise,” Potter said, lowering his eyes to the very, very obvious tenting in Draco’s underpants.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Potter. Even a particularly vigorous flight while sat on a broom does that to me,” Draco told him, in vain effort to be flippant about it.

“Interesting bodily reactions,” Potter actually leered at that, as he bent over to retrieve his clothes from the floor anew, giving Draco a very fine view to his very fine backside for the second time that night. As if one time didn’t cause enough suffering as it was.

“And wouldn’t you just like to know more?” Draco would swear left and right, high and low, that it just fucking slipped. That was _not_ a come-on to Harry Potter. If only damn Potter would stop parading his damn arse around, maybe Draco could concentrate on _not_ coming onto the Savior of the Wizarding World!

Draco was still silently fuming, getting back into his clothes for the second bloody time that evening, that he didn’t notice Potter slip away back to his friends. He went back to his, still berating himself for how the most recent encounter ended.

The game quickly declined after that. After all, energies couldn’t be higher than if you’d just finished watching seven-year rivals, the very epitome of their warring Houses, engage in tonsil hockey. People began to trickle—or stagger—out of the room in batches, calling it a night and considering the party a resounding success.

The Slytherin suddenly felt bereft, like the night had not been enough to pick him up from this long slump in his life. It was time to return to the dry pages of his textbooks again, to endless nights of studying by himself in the quiet-as-the-grave Slytherin common room or in his hidden alcove in the library, to his self-imposed isolation. At least, he didn’t have long to wait before graduation; after which, he would be free to try to chart his own path and try to save what good will was left in the Malfoy name. He was considering Healing or Auror training or Curse-breaking as his profession. He was going to have his work cut out for him, trying to move on from the bad decisions during the War, but he was confident that he could do it or die trying.

“Let’s go, Draco,” Pansy tugged on his elbow.

But before he could take a step, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. Turning around, he found himself staring into the deep emerald pools that were Potter’s mesmerizing eyes.

“So does the offer still stand then?” Potter asked with a sheepish smile and a rake of his hand through his messy hair.

Offer—what offer? “What offer?”

“To know more. About you,” Harry admitted, earnestly. “And you know, know how your mum’s doing, if your wand’s acting up after I borrowed it to vanquish Voldemort…” Potter started rambling. Draco found it endearing. That was probably indication enough that he way off his rocker. “Things like that.”

Draco felt the corners of his lips twitch. “I’d like that,” he said, adding, “Harry.”

Harry nodded once and left the room after his Gryffindor friends with a casual wave of his hand goodbye.

Maybe Draco Malfoy’s deliverance didn’t have to end after one night after all.

The blonde Slytherin could feel the ghost of a smile on his face as he trailed after Pansy and Blaise to the end of the corridor where the Slytherins would take the hallway to the east while the Gryffindors, the west. He was still walking right at his friends’ heels, when he chanced a glimpse at the retreating form of Harry Potter on the opposite corridor and he saw Potter— _Harry_ —looking right at him with an earnest smile on his good looking face.

Something told Draco that this night was just the beginning.

 

===FIN===


End file.
